


Start Anew

by starrelia (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Gen, Horror, Mild Gore, Starvation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 11:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10875810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starrelia
Summary: The elders of the Shimada estate are cruel, forcing responsibilities onto Genji that he cannot handle. Forcing him into situations that he hates in this cursed estate.Elsewhere, a little boy in an orange raincoat wanders aimlessly, lost in this cursed estate, forced into situations he hates…





	Start Anew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evanelric](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanelric/gifts).



> [tumblr link to the fic.](https://starrelia.tumblr.com/post/160458088242/title-start-anew-summary-the-elders-of-the)

Birds screech out, far too close and loud; a siren demanding him to wake up, and so it takes him far too long to do so. In the small room, surrounded by nothing but walls and not much more, he starts slowly and shivers from the cold. On his person is only an orange raincoat, undergarments on as well, and nothing more to protect him from the horrible temperature. Trembling, he forces his feet down onto the cold wood beneath him and he shudders.

Everything around him is far too cold, and still he needs to leave. It takes far too long for his body to obey him, to listen to him and to let him move; it is as though he is absolutely paralysed and is just recovering from it, a miracle to end all miracles, and he takes small, infinitesimal steps until he is able to gather his thoughts.

Around him, everything is large; grander in scale than him, even the walls stretch up too far high for him to even comprehend being that tall. He shuffles on over to the door, the door handle staring down at him and he has to bend and jump as far up as he can to grab onto the door handle.

It is only by the weight of his body that he is able to get the door to swing open; clumsily he lets go and lands on his rear, and he shudders from the ache of it. Standing up, he musters up his strength to be able to push the door even more open and he starts to make his way out of the empty room that he has woken up in.

What greets him is a room with dim lighting; not enough to see far too well, but enough for his eyes to adjust and allow him to take in the cherry blossom designs on the wall and torn paintings. There is an abhorrent stench that reaches his nose when he takes further steps in; the rot of wood and something more, stinging his nose with its pungent odour.

He presses his hands to his nose and soldiers on, the light above him swinging back and forth and only illuminating a few things at a time… yet, he is able to make out the gleam of a small lighter; small enough for him to be able to use, but far too small for people who are as tall as the door behind him.

Far too desperately, the boy in the raincoat stumbles and nearly trips on his own feet in an attempt to grab the lighter. It is clean in his hands, as though it has never been used, despite the grime and muck that seems to live on the floor. It clicks a few times before it works; a small circle of light is more than enough for him to be able to see.

Gently, his feet pads along the moist and sticky floors. A few times his foot sinks into something thick and wet and he has to keep from puking from the sensation.

He inhales sharply, then exhales ever so slowly in an attempt to calm his queasy stomach. Wherever he is… it is no longer the beauty he imagines it once was; whatever wallpapers that once were are now peeling, their colours faded and dull. Paintings are indescribable now; torn or ripped, covered in filth and whatever repugnant substance that brings about such a foul odour…

They are nothing more than memories now, and he is not too sure if he even has memories of such a place.

With the lighter’s flame flickering, he lets it die down so that he is once more bathed in the shadows of the room.

Though he finds himself in the dark of the room, he slides down into a fetal position and stares into the dark until his eyes finally adjust. The orange raincoat barely protects him from the slick and stained floors beneath him; it feels as though he is sitting on living mold, something that pulses and squelches atrociously as he sits and shifts around.

He does his best to ignore it and hugs his knees closer to his chest, shivering every so often from the chill. The windows are open and they are far too big and high-up for him to even try close them. Whatever is outside as well… he doesn’t want to risk it. From where he is, he cannot see light outside--

There is no sun, no glow, and it is only the thickness of the smog outside that greets his limited vision.

What has happened to this beautiful estate?

He looks away from it and focuses instead on aspects of the room. He is able to make out a shelf after a while of waiting; it is covered in dust, holding books that are frayed and ruined, and he wonders what they are all about.

The spines have no writings on them that he can make out, all scratched off or covered in a liquid that he cannot identify, and he sighs. What use is there in reading now, anyway? He forces himself to stand once his eyes are completely used to the dark and he hugs himself, tight, as he starts walking once more.

Every step he takes produces no sound, his body far too light and small to even make some of the old and rotten woods creak. The slaps of his bare feet against the wet floors are far too loud in his hears, mixing in with his pounding heartbeat, as he walks. The door is open for him, swinging back and forth barely, as though it is being rocked, and he does not question it. Instead, he merely holds his hands out to catch onto the door and push it out enough that it does not hit him as he walks inside.

Maggots and leeches fall from the ceiling of the next room he is in and those that are already on the floor are feasting on flesh that he does not want to question how old they are. The flesh that they are devouring is fetid, answering his question as to what the other horrible smell may have been. He presses the lighter to his chest and walks even slower. Often, he has to stop and let the leeches or maggots wriggle past him; they are the length of his entire body, far thicker than his skinny form, and he can only imagine how ferocious they are the moment they realise he is here.

Stepping over a few that are eating, the boy in the raincoat does his best to ignore the sounds that they all make. Why is it that this has befallen this place? He wants to cry, almost, before he reminds himself that this is not the place for it.

The maggots and leeches descend upon a particular piece of meat and he has to look away as they indulge themselves.

They eat and they eat, and the boy in the raincoat hopes that he may leave soon and never have to look at it ever again.

He doesn’t want to do this.

* * *

“I’m not doing it.” Genji says, his teeth grinding against each other. The elders stare through him, his father refusing to even acknowledge him. “I’m not going to-- you can’t fucking make me!” He barks out, and his caretaker immediately shushes him. A hand is pressed against his mouth, to keep him from saying anything else foul for a man so young -- but yet, a fourteen year old shouldn’t be asked to execute someone.

Even if they are a traitor to the family, this isn’t his duty. He lets out a sob against the hand on his mouth and the caretaker lets their hand fall, even as Genji is shaking with the anger from his situation. Before him kneels someone with their head in a bag, holes in it so that they may breathe at least but nothing more.

If they are to suffocate to death, then this will all have been for nothing. But he doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t _want to._ Every part of him is sickened, his stomach flipping and clenching far too tightly, making it almost impossible to concentrate on what the elders want him to do.

But they all stare at him silently, judgemental and disapproving, and Sojiro finally looks at him with shame and upset in his gaze.

Genji can’t tell what his father feels; shame at himself or at Genji for failing to obey, or upset by what he has to do.

Finally, he slumps over and reaches with both hands out and his instructor walks up behind him while a manservant drops the heavy blade in his hands. His instructor stands behind him, her hands on his to help him steady the blade before she lets go so that he may do his duty.

Standing by the side of his unfortunate victim, he raises the blade up… and lets it fall down and decapitate his mother, whose head rolls on the floor. The bag is removed from her head finally, and her expression is that of complete acceptance of what is to happen to her.

From behind him, Sojiro sobs… and Genji has never hated his father more than he has now.

* * *

There are torn pieces of clothes all around him; some are intact, in small piles, as though they are to be put away soon, and he can only imagine the beautiful men and women wearing the kimonos that he can barely see. Some are black, blending in with the darkness, and some are such a vibrant colour that he envies those large enough to wear them.

Why has he come into this place, anyway? He tries to remember as he walks up to tables and tries his hardest to climb them. Nothing comes to mind, nothing that can tell him as to why he is here. His fingers and hands slip a few times on the wood, before he is finally able to catch a grip onto it and make his way up.

This is all so familiar to him; climbing and jumping as he is right now. Rolls of fabric pile on one another, looking like logs what to the people here are just simple bits of fabric.

Is anyone here?

He tumbles off and onto the floor beneath, landing far too hard and he gasps and curls up. He rubs his knees and flinches when his stomach pinches in pain as well. Sitting up in a seiza before quickly switching to something more comfortable, the boy in the orange raincoat breathes slowly… anything to soothe the anxiety that spikes up.

There is nothing more he can do here. It’s too dark… but he has the lighter, does he not? Swallowing, he flicks the flame on and raises it up to look around. It takes him half a turn when he stands to catch sight of the statue that takes up this room.

It stares down at him, the face indiscernible with only the flickering of the lighter’s flame, but he is able to make out the dragon designs on the kimono of the statue. It stares down at him, with its hands folded in front of it and he cannot help but think it looks like the picture of a perfect, ideal person.

For reasons that even he cannot identify, he cannot help but feel sick for staring at this statue for so long… and yet, he wonders. What ever is it doing in a room full of clothes? Why does it stare at him so, even if he cannot see the face?

It is just a statue, he reminds himself. It cannot do anything to him other than judge him for all his actions, even if he doesn’t know what he has done wrong. With the lighter being held close, he walks past the statue and he swears - he swears upon his heart, as it beats far too quickly - that the head of the statue turns to stare at him.

But it is far too dark for him to tell… and he rushes away from the statue. The lighter flickers from the speed at which he is running and he has to let the flame die, even more so when he bumps into another desk and he has to climb up it.

Familiar, familiar. It is all so very familiar. All he has to do is go up… to think that climbing a desk is such a daunting task…

Where ever is he? Everything is so dark around him, or if there is light then the colours are all washed out. The panic makes his heart beat far too quickly, and he berates himself - over and over - for being scared of a simple statue.

It is just a statue. It cannot move. It cannot stare at him.

His stomach aches.

* * *

They can’t do this to him. He curls up on himself and starts crying, his hands clenching his stomach. It has been three hours since he has been brought into this room, all because Genji has been “disobeying” the elders and needs to be punished…

The only “disobedient action” that he has taken is the fact that he came ten minutes late for a meeting because he is busy trying to do another task given to him. His father doesn’t even question it; whatever that has happened to his dad to let the elders do this to Genji…

He hates him. He hates him in ways that no one else can even comprehend. If they are even to try and relate to him, they will find themselves screaming at him that he is a monster for thinking of such grotesque things about his father…

His father who has abandoned him to the elders that lock him up for not being the perfect little poster boy they want him to be. But he is trying! He swears, he swears he is. One elder just… one other elder has just given him a task that he needs to do-- that is what the elder said.

It’s not Genji’s fault, he swears. He yells it out to them, maybe, he can’t really tell; he is so stuck in his own world, where his stomach hurts and keeps growling and gurgling from starvation, that he doesn’t know what exactly he’s saying.

Maybe he is just screaming nonsense at the elders hoping they take pity on him. Can they even hear him? Is anyone listening? He screams - just plain _screams_ \- in hopes that someone will hear him. Where is his father? Where is he? He misses his mother. He misses her so much. He curls into himself and sobs; his stomach hurts. He can’t take this anymore.

“I’m sorry!” Genji yells out after a while, frustration, rage and hurt all mixing in to make him sound so very pathetic. “I’m sorry! Please! I wanna eat! I’m sorry! Lemme out! Lemme out!” He screams, over and over again, the only thing he can really understand.

_Let me out. Let me out._

He keeps screaming until his throat is raw and it hurts to do anything else. Genji curls up, shaking, his legs being hugged tightly to his chest, and he doesn’t know how long he stays in that position.

Crying. Starving. In pain. He waits. The urge to puke rises, even though there is nothing in his stomach, and his kidneys are starting to demand attention to. He needs to eat. He needs to go to the bathroom. He-

He wants his moth-

The door opens finally, and he hears the apologetic voice of his caretaker-- they sound like they are about to cry as they enter the room.

“Y-young master,” they say, stuttering, “your… your dinner.”

They don’t even get to put the food down before he practically lunges at her and rips the food out of her hand. It’s meat-- it can even be raw, for all he cares-- and he bites down into it. He tears it apart, the dragons giving him sharp teeth so that he may eat easier, and the caretaker sobs at the sight of him eating like an animal.

* * *

It hurts. He has to grab onto his stomach and force the door that is ajar with his small body, the tremors from hunger making it far too hard to focus on the door. It takes too long -- or maybe the same amount of time as before -- for him to push the door open…

The moment he is in the room, in what seems to be a dining hall where someone else is there, is the exact same moment that his stomach starts to clench and _hurt._ It growls loudly, demandingly, and the stinging, sharp pain gets worse and worse as seconds pass.

He cries out and falls down, tries to force himself to crawl, but the sharp pain gets worse. It gets worse and worse and worse, and he feels like a slug attempting to move… but even a slug is about to move better than him.

Perhaps the boy is more comparable to a worm being held in the air, wiggling without any place to go… unable to escape.

The person in the room is quiet. Unmoving. He almost thinks they are just another statue there, placed to unnerve him and to remind him of how unfortunate he is.

Of how much larger than him this entire place is.

But really, who here will even want to taunt him? Do they even know that he’s here? He is so very close to the door… but what is he going to do like this? Starving and pained, unable to even stand up to do the most basic task of _walking._

He has to _crawl_ there, on his belly, like a wretched earthworm. The room is full of objects that he may push around, to use as a sort of stepping stool to the door handle… but how is he going to leave?

It is simple. The boy is going to die here, in his sullied orange raincoat and in a room with a large window to another adjacent room and a door that is not even locked. He doubts that it is locked. There is no keyhole, nothing he can see that will let the door be shut to him, and there is no way for him to even be able to climb up.

He curls on the floor and looks up over at the window to the adjacent room and all the air leaves his body.

Someone is standing there. Their face difficult to see in the shadows, yet one hand is pressed against the window. They are dressed in a black beautiful kimono with golden dragons, their form unmoving and their head only tilted to stare at him and him alone.

Though he cannot see their face, their eyes, he can feel their judging and sharp eyes staring through him. Evaluating his worth… like a piece of meat to sell. He does not know how long he stares back at the person, at the one shrouded in shadow, but they finally tilt their head back and their hand drags a dark stain down the window.

They push themselves away and do not even look over their shoulder. Elegantly, proud, they walk away from him, their head raised as though to look down on all around them. There is no one and they are gone, but still he feels pathetic.

He starves on the floor, and he closes his eyes to accept his fate. This is where he will-

Something falls next to him. A piece of meat. He looks up to see that the person who is sitting at the dining table has dropped their meal next to him. They bend down to offer rice, but he shakes his head and latches onto the meat instead. They do not judge him, do not look at him with their sad eyes, but they merely look away and stare at their rice that they have not touched once.

He eats desperately, a dog on its final moments of life, and his body no longer aches and screams at him in pain. When he rises, the person at the table turns and opens the door for him and lets it swing wide open.

There are more dining tables in what appears to be an empty kitchen. He makes his way inside, arms wrapping around himself once more as he steps into the only well-lit area that he has been to so far.

Dirty dishes line the tables; bits and pieces of meat are scattered about. Meat, meat, meat. All he sees is meat, and nothing more. They hang from the tables, from the ceiling, and it makes his heart clench at the thought of devouring them all. As he continues to walk by, the shapes of the meat… warp.

Unprocessed meat wrapped in some sort of cloth hang over his head, barely moving and far too unrealistic in how still they are. The more he walks by, the more common the unprocessed meat becomes. Something about them makes him sick, uneasy, and it only takes a few more steps for him to realise why.

Above him, people as small as him hang, swinging. They look as though they are in an assembly to be wrapped; all of them scarred, from whatever or whoever it is that hung them up there. His footsteps end up becoming slower, quieter… their noise nonexistent.

From memory, from what he has been taught. He walks slowly… and scrambles to hide when he hears heavy creaking and loud footfalls. A man with a bandaged head makes his appearance, with arms too long for his body and a head that keeps lulling around… as though he is a doll with a broken head, attached only by a flimsy tape that causes it to roll around and around…

Heavily he breathes, as though simple breaths are not enough to sustain its abnormal body, and he presses against the wall at the sight of the bandaged man…

… and finds himself stifling a gasp of fear when the bandaged man raises his nose up, the only visible part of his face, and takes in deep, heavy sniffs. It overpowers all other sounds to hear him smell the air, like a guard dog, and he jolts when bony hands slap against the wall that the boy in the raincoat is pressed against.

Stuck in fear, the bandaged man reaches out and grabs him easy and lifts him up… he is brought close to his face, to his broken nose, and the man sniffs. Once. Twice… and then he is placed back down onto the floor where the bandaged man just stares at him.

Muffled words are all he hears, and he cannot make out with the bandaged man is saying. He closes his eyes, clenches at his chest, and tries not to cry from the anxiety that has built up. The peace does not last for long; he yells as the bandaged man slaps a box from the very top of a stack of boxes down.

It falls over, little people like him attempting to scurry out to try and escape, and the boy in the orange raincoat ends up screaming when the bandaged man gathers them all up in one hand easily. He finally gets up on his feet and misses the way the bandaged man hangs them up to be processed into meat as well.

* * *

“Sparrow…” Sojiro starts gently, his hand cradling Genji’s face. “Please, please talk to me. If you neglect your studies anymore, if you don’t let me tutor you right now, the elders will get worse with you.” But Genji doesn’t respond. He stares off into the distance, looking like a doll, and Sojiro’s heart clenches in upset at the very thought.

Two years ago, just barely, his son is full of life and vigour. He rebels against the elders, his mother and father supporting him every step of the way. He fights and yells against the elders while trying to keep his brother safe, and Genji has never been one to bow down to the elders. To obey them and make the same mistakes that Sojiro has.

But that is not to last, it seems. Whatever his late-wife has done… whatever that she has done to make the elders force their son into such a position, to make such abhorrent demands of him…

And to-

“Genji, you need to study.” He stresses. “I cannot help you if the elders get worse. I have Hanzo to worry about, and you know how fragile he is. I need to protect him, I need to keep him from--”

Sojiro pauses. He waits. And waits. And waits.

And waits.

But Genji says nothing and stares at nothing. It is as if he’s talking to a shell of the boy that he once has had the right to call his son.

The punishments have grown more severe; more and more people have tasted Genji’s blade, and his son hasn’t even been sixteen for long. A clan tradition to make those at the fresh age of sixteen fight and, over time, kill so that they may be beneficial to the clan.

Not his Genji, it seems. Not his Genji, who sits and lets his father cradle his head. Not his Genji, who does not utter a word to him in response. Not his Genji, who is silent and obedient. Not his Genji.

No longer is his the rebellious and singing sparrow that he has once known… and it is all his fault for not being able to control the elders better.

“Why’d you let ‘em do that?” Genji asks after god knows how long. “I ate her.”

“... you couldn’t have known. Sparrow, you were hungry. You needed to eat-”

“I ate her.”

Tears gather at his son’s eyes and Sojiro brings him into his arms… and Genji does not struggle anymore, lets his father gather him into his arms and hold him. “I’m sorry.” Sojiro says grimly and Genji just sobs and wails into his chest. How long will this guilt last, he cannot help but ask himself. Any longer and…

...

He needs to lecture his son soon, or else they will whip him once more… and he cannot bear to hear his son’s screams as the whip breaks his flesh.

* * *

All the boy can do is run. He doesn’t know why the bandaged man leaves him alone, but he runs and runs. He tries not to trip over bodies that he encounters, and he is sure that he is going through an infinite loop. He runs and runs, climbs over the same stacks of dishes and of books, and finds himself in the same rooms.

He runs and he runs and he runs. His body screams at him, his breath running out, but the fear that makes his heart pound and his blood rush demands that he keeps going. The bandaged man does not chase him, never has, but still…

Still, the bandaged man fills him with a fear that makes the boy in the raincoat want to curl away and never emerge. He wants to get out-- wants to leave this wretched place. Murky brown is all that he can see as he runs; sometimes he runs past paintings… most with faces torn off, many of which are landscapes far more beautiful than the smog that is outside, blocking out the sun.

But not even he can run forever, despite the adrenaline that pumps in his veins. He trips over his own feet and falls forward, barely catching himself with his hands and he shakily holds himself up.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He collapses, tries to get his breath… and loses it immediately when he hears the gentle padding of feet on the wooden floor.

A shadow stands over him and he can’t stop breathing so quickly. Getting on his hands, he raises his head up and looks up to see a face wrapped in shadow. A familiar kimono greets him but this time he can see the swords strapped onto the shadowy figure’s person.

“Ah…” for the first time ever, his voice escapes him. “No…” Yet he cannot manage much to say as the figure reaches out… and lifts him up without even needing to touch him. Something constricts around his throat -- scaly and rough -- and he claws at it, legs kicking in the air.

His vision flickers, air leaving him rapidly and easily… how hard can it be to kill someone as small as him?

A punishment for his sins. A punishment for--

He falls to the ground unceremoniously once he has lost consciousness, and the shadowy person bends down and lifts him up with two fingers.

 

The boy in the orange raincoat wakes to humming… that warps into sobbing, crying, and soon turns to humming once more. He is set up on a table, on a plate with leftover food - actual food, of vegetables and rice and pieces of meat - and the person in the kimono is sitting at a vanity.

They brush their hair, over and over, even though it does not need to be brushed any more than it is. They hum only to immediately start sobbing, a pathetic display of weakness, and the boy in the raincoat feels something bitter grow in his chest.

He tries not to make himself be known, even as the shadowy person brushes their hair and stares right into the mirror of the vanity… but the boy in the raincoat still cannot see their face, nor can he see his own.

A few times he finds himself nearly lulled to sleep by the humming only to awake when the shadowy person begins to wail and cry. A constant back and forth that he does not expect. Minutes go by agonisingly slowly. He shifts his focus from the person in front of the mirror to the room itself.

The bedroom they are in is… simple. One cannot even call it modest, for there is little in here to suggest anyone even truly lives here. He is in a prison room, for all he can tell, with an uncomfortable bed by the side. There is a toilet here as well, filthy and stinking as if it has not been cleaned up in years. Or perhaps the person in the kimono does, and nothing they can do will get rid of the filth.

The odour in the room is that of bile and not of stool or urine, and he does not know what to make of that.

He hears the drag of a chair on the floor as the person in the kimono stands. The dragons on their outfit glitters beautifully, the only life in this place. A loud gurgle rings out in the room and for a brief moment, a panic-inducing moment, the boy thinks it is him.

But when the person lurches over to the toilet and begins to vomit red chunks, crying as they do, their hair a mess around them… the boy feels relieved in his safety. The shadowy person stands, their hand on their stomach, and he quickly pretends to be asleep when they turn to face him.

He feels their cold presence loom over him, their hand - frozen, stained deep crimson - running over him… but another loud gurgle rings out and the person wails and throws themself away from him.

Kicking and screaming, they leave the room like a wailing banshee and he finally sits up and looks over to the vanity. He has to climb down the table to even make it up on the vanity. He drags out drawers, makes steps for himself, and when he drags himself up onto it to stare into the vanity…

A boy in a raincoat stares back at him. He pulls the dirty hood back to stare into his own childish face, black hair falling around him… filthy, greasy. Uncleaned.

Far from what he usually is.

And though the person in the kimono is not here… though they are not here, he can see their face so clearly now too.

Pained, distressed. Dying.

Falling down from the vanity hurts, but not as much as it should. He softly makes his way outside, past photos of family and loved ones. Their faces are torn. Only his is visible. He needs to find the man in the shadows, the man who has tried to eat him just like he has everyone else.

It is not that hard to find him. All he simply needs to do… is follow the pained wailing.

 

There are rooms upon rooms of elderly men in them, all of whom look out to see him and cannot move their atrocious bodies to try and stop him. Not that they seem to want to; they observe him as he walks through the hallway, past through all the open doors.

Murky brown walls begin to bleed into a silencing black. There is one final door at the end of the hallway, ajar, and all he needs to do is slip in through the little crack that his brother has so graciously given him.

In a room full of mirrors is his brother, lying in the middle of it all. Green bleeds out onto the floor, joining his brother’s vomit and blood, and it leaves his hair an overwhelming black. The boy in the raincoat takes one step further into the room…

… before his stomach starts clenching up, a hunger far worse than before striking him now. It _hurts…_ tears spring up to his eyes and he groans in pain.

The wailing stops. His brother looks at him.

“Hanzo…” he calls out, so welcoming. He reaches out with one shaky hand-- so much closer than Hanzo expects him to be. No other words need to be said-- he wraps one arm around his stomach and reaches out with the free one for his brother.

Closer and closer he pads… until he is able to pounce forward and sink his dragon-sharp teeth into Genji’s hand.

Like an animal, he tears his brother’s body apart and Genji does not cry. He does not scream. He is silent throughout it all. He tears at his neck, and the last thing Hanzo sees before his hunger is sated is Genji’s relieved smile.

There are elderly men gathering at the door to the room of mirrors, and Hanzo kneels over his brother’s body. The tattoo glows, hot, with his brother’s vigour, and Hanzo wraps his arms around himself and screams.

  


_I ate her._


End file.
